contact part deux

[bouchonne]

if this were modern times byerly would probably make you listen to total eclipse of the heart before you were able to leave a message

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[bouchonne]

[ Oh. ]

Has that been bothering you?

[cozen]

[ Bastien nods into his neck, then lifts his head again to be able to look Byerly in the eye. He smiles a little. It’s a survivable sort of bothered, see? ]

[bouchonne]

[ Oh. That's -

Well, really sweet. ]

Why would it bother me that you care enough to ask?

[cozen]

[ Bastien settles back down into his shoulder. ]

You don’t have to be bothered by that part. But you—

[ He shrugs. ]

I don’t know. Maybe he used to say things like that to you. That he had reasons or it was for your own good. Did he?

[bouchonne]

No.

[ A dry little laugh at the mere thought. ]

He didn't care about my good. I was irredeemable, remember?

[ He smooths Bastien's hair down. ]

And you're lacking a few key qualities, if you're worried about reminding me of him.

[cozen]

Mmm.

[ He’ll accept that. But— ]

You were upset. We don’t have to talk about it. But I am sorry.

[bouchonne]

No. I -

[ His brows draw down. ]

I meant it. No one else cares enough to ask.

[cozen]

[ The impulse to be pleased with any no one else he can get is pretty evenly balanced against firsthand knowledge of how lonely it can be. So Bastien lifts his head to smile again, comforted, but in a subdued sort of way. ]

All right.

[ He shifts his weight, slipping off to be half- instead of fully-atop Byerly, with one leg still sprawled across him to keep him imprisoned. It gives him space to plant his elbow to hold his head up.

That rearrangement takes enough time for the touch of melancholy to fade, most of the way, and be replaced with a touch of humor. ]

Maybe we could use a safe word.

[bouchonne]

Hm.

[ He reaches out and traces a finger along Bastien's collarbone. ]

A stop prying, this is making me feel too itchy, Byerly-or-Bastien code?

[cozen]

Itchy, [ Bastien echoes, with a little laugh, because it’s funny.

And accurate. ]

Yes. That.

[bouchonne]

I like it.

[ He reaches out for the bottle - it's been too long since they drank any - and takes a swig. ]

How about - what was that name? [ The one they'd giggled over? ]

[cozen]

[ He grins. ]

Walpurgk.

[ He watches Byerly drink. He can feel it—heaviness seeping into the places that felt floppy and silly before, probably with grogginess to follow behind. Drinking more is a good call.

But first, while he still feels grounded enough to to speak in complex sentences, ]

I trust you. [ Okay, that one's not complex. But here's one: ] I decided a while ago, after those dreams, I don't want to hold something back from you. I'm sorry for going back on my word, and I'm sorry if it makes you nervous, but—it's too late. It's done. So we will just have to deal with it. All right?

[bouchonne]

Mm -

[ He licks a little bit of liquor that's escaped from the corner of his mouth and passes the bottle over. ]

All right.

[ But... ]

When did you go back on your word?

[cozen]

When I—

[ He feels childish, in a distant sort of way, to be keeping track of a promise as if he made it with his pinky. Fortunately there's a layer of lingering buzz to keep it from turning into full-blown embarrassment, and a bottle that promises more. ]

I told you I'd keep some of my heart in reserve. That's all.

[ He takes his longest drink yet. ]

[bouchonne]

Oh.

[ That's - Byerly feels flushed and dizzy. ]

Certainly. Yes. That makes sense.

[cozen]

[ Bastien nods, businesslike. Glad that's settled. He sets the bottle back down in both of their reach and brushes By's hair away from his forehead. Then back onto his forehead, for good measure, waiting to feel pleasantly stupid again. ]

Ask my name in the morning, when I'm mad at you because my head hurts. No advantage then. And now tell me... your favorite place in Denerim.

[bouchonne]

Hold on -

[ He can't help but laugh. ]

I thought you were asking all these questions to compensate for the one big question you were going to be answering. Now it turns out I was answering all of them for free?

[cozen]

That's right. [ Very pleased with himself. ] Unless you are willing to turn your back on gentlemanliness and be a scoundrel with me, like old times. Then you can ask whenever you want.

[bouchonne]

Noooo.

[ He moans that. But: ]

But I do get some questions. Just questions that you'd answer anyway.

[cozen]

I'm in charge here.

[ He takes another drink for the road and tries to resume his prisoner-keeping straddle, but if he's less silly-drunk than before, he's also more heavy-drunk. He quickly lies back down. ]

Fine. All right. Because I love you, not because those are the rules.

[bouchonne]

[ He laughs, and rolls over to nuzzle Bastien. ]

I like you being commanding.

[ But - ]

But I don't like you hearing me say that I'm pleased that you care enough to ask questions and then deciding that your job is to ask me questions.

[cozen]

Not a job. A calling.

[ It's a weak joke. He's frowning, even as he worms his arm under Byerly as a silent offer to take his turn as pillow, and trying to make his sludgy brain locate the angle Byerly is looking at this from. ]

I wasn't trying to—to be manipulative.

[bouchonne]

I know.

[ He takes that offer, settling in bonelessly atop that arm. ]

But it gets tiring. Asking, asking, listening, listening. The game of spying. I don't want it to be doing more of that tiring work in time when you should just be relaxing.

[cozen]

I don't get tired of listening to you. You know that song you let me save on my crystal? I don't understand a word of it, but I could sing it now.

[ He curls his arm around By's shoulders and demonstrates a few lines of the Antivan murder ballad, half-decent accent and all, ending obliviously in the middle of a sentence because he doesn't know it's not the end.

It takes care of his frown. ]

You should relax, too. I really will tell you in the morning, you'll see. I can tell you something else now. Or we could play another game. Or we could make out.

[bouchonne]

Mm. I just don't want you to feel like you have to work to please me.

[ Even though the obvious attention and care gone into that song, the way that Bastien has imitated Byerly's occasional idiosyncrasies of phrasing and lyric, pleases him immensely. Me, me, he cares about me. The thought fills him with elation mixed with an undercurrent of horrified repulsion. Maker, why me?

He nuzzles into the side of Bastien's neck. ]

Tell me something else.